


The Red Strings of Fate (aren't always right)

by A_lee_us, Airiamurillo



Category: Hollywood Undead (Band)
Genre: Fate is a bitch, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Loneliness, Mutual Love and Care, Red Strings of Fate, Resolution, Unrequited Love, acceptance of fate, drugs and alcohol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-08 02:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15921104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_lee_us/pseuds/A_lee_us, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airiamurillo/pseuds/Airiamurillo
Summary: There had to be a mistake. There had to be.This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be so unfortunate to suffer such a shitty destiny. He couldn’t-Fuck it.Jorel ran back home, threw together a backpack, and sped his car out of the town.-Or; Fate is a bitch and fucks up Jorel's string, binding him to a person who is bound to someone else. Confused and heartbroken, the bassist flees the town, unaware that it would be the best decision of his life.





	1. A Helpful Guide to Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AwokenMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwokenMonster/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Airia and I have been working for weeks on this and I'm to finally be able to share it ^^ Bless Airia for being such a great person to work with. Thank you, mate, for your efforts.
> 
> Monster, I hope you like this ^^ 
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments if you may!
> 
> \- Alias, 8/9/18

As societies developed, the ways of the world likewise evolved. Human nature is always shifting, afterall: morales drifting, ideologies and priorities changing.

No one knows when it happened but one day, nature decided to gift the humankind with the lovely blessing of fate.

In the instance when the change happened, no one was conscious of it. Brains all over the world went blank for that crucial millisecond.

And when their minds cleared, certain individuals were finding a slender, bright red string extending from their third knuckle, extending out towards the horizon, into buildings, across streets, or even to the person just next to them.

It took a while for people to figure it out, took even longer for studies to prove it, but these red strings of fate linked people, destined for eternal happiness with each other, to each other.

In short, when fate determined them ready, individuals would find their own bright red threads connecting them to their significant other - the other who would be perfect for them, who would be their complement, and bring them the utmost bliss.

People all across the world began trailing after their strings - couples bowling each other over with tight embraces, people crying as their hands slipped into their other’s, furious hugs being made.

Of course, not everyone would be blessed by the change.

In a cemetery, a young woman, heart wrenching with denial and fear, stared in disbelief as her thread disappeared into the earth, before a gravestone.

More little details also popped up as time proceeded on: Some people could not see other people’s threads. Some people could see everyone’s threads. The threads dissipated a week after they appear. The threads were always red.

Fate was changing things - making or breaking people’s lives all across the world.

And this particular tale is of a rather peculiar anomaly by the name of Jorel Decker; a tale that would prove that Fate was not always right.


	2. Fate Is An Actual Bitch

Morning dawned, bright and sunny.

Jorel woke, eyes finding the bare white ceiling; familiar sheets soft against his skin, sunlight creeping in through gaps in the curtains. The plain clock on the wall ticked softly like it always did.

Another day, another morning in the mundane, uneventful life of Jorel Decker.

He groaned as he rolled off his bed, landing in an ungraceful heap on the floor. The blankets fell with a muffled _thump_ along with him.

What ought he do that day?

The day stretched out long and vast before him. Another long day of mundane, repetitive schedule: Work, studio, home, sleep.

Life was repetitive and dull - almost unbearable.

His fingers clawed about the cool glass of his bedside table as he hunted for his phone from his awkward cocoon on the chilly ground.

He yawned, eyes still bleary, mind slow.

Blinking, he briefly considered going back to sleep before he saw _it_.

Jorel’s unclear, freshly-awaken state of mind sharpened so rapidly it hurt; focus shooting to the bright, slender thread stretched taut from his wrist, disappearing into a wall of his room.

He stared at it, shocked.

The thread was fine - almost as thin as human hair. Bright red, glinting the slightest bit in the sunlight.

Pulling himself into a sitting position, muscles groaning in protest, Jorel marvelled at the slender red string, entranced, taking in every detail he could.

The thread ran into his skin, seemingly popping out from a vein on his right wrist. His finger ghosted through the thread when he attempted to finger it. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to touch it - they had all learnt it in Health back in high school; the threads weren’t tangible objects - they simply existed to aid happiness in humankind.

He was bound to someone.

Jorel’s heart skipped a beat, pulse quickening, a sweet sort of happiness washing over him. A smile crept up his face and he began beaming stupidly at the little thread running from his wrist. Holy shit, life was amazing.

He felt doused in sunshine - weightless, light, radiant. He was destined for happiness, he was fated to be with someone who would bring him the utmost joy for the rest of his life.

Like a convict being cleared of a death sentence, Jorel was elated.

He stumbled to his feet, whipping a coat off his hanger and throwing it over himself. There was no time to lose: he threw the door open, shoved his feet into his shoes - socks be damned - and began a quick jog in the direction the thread was leading him.

It was surreal, Jorel felt, as the wind whipped around him. He was running towards his fate, ready to embrace happiness, but yet he couldn’t believe it. It was too good to be true. He was finally going to live in joy. Happiness. _Bliss._

Feet thudding on the concrete path, he was mildly aware of the world around him, lost in his own thoughts. His mind was running through all the possibilities - a sweet girl who would bake him treats every weekend, or perhaps a quiet intellectual male? He could not stop grinning, thinking of all the possibilities.

The din of a busy intersection halted his thoughts. His pace slowed, heart jumping from both the jog and anxiety. Sweat was dripping down his forehead - something that he had not noticed before. He had been blindly chasing after the thread, completely unaware of his surrounding. A quick glance at a nearby road sign that read _Davis Street 3_ told him that he had, in fact, travelled quite a large distance. He breathed heavily at that, panting out hot breaths of air.

He had stopped at a junction. The traffic light for the crossing that he meant to travel was signalling red.

Patience had never been Jorel’s thing but remaining composed _right now_ was impossible. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, agitatedly tapping on his thighs. The red string seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, running to God knows where. If only he could reach the end soon.

A bark caught his attention and he whipped left to see an elderly woman slowing to a halt next to him, also waiting for the traffic to be in their favour. A leashed white poodle frisked about her ankle. Her eyes were warm and compassionate as she took in Jorel’s thread, a gentle smile creeping up her face.

“Good luck, kiddo,” she smiled, “I met my husband through the strings of fate and I’ve been the happiest I’ve ever been for decades.”

Jorel smiled back at her, teeth showing. “Thank you,” he said gratefully, but could not stop himself from agitatedly checking the traffic light - as uncourteous it must have been.

Fortunately, the elderly woman only nodded understandingly. “Best of luck, kiddo!” She beamed as the traffic light flashed a green man, “Have a wonderful day!”

“Thank you!” Jorel called over his shoulder as he bolted after the thread.

The few minutes delay had felt like hours.

Somehow, it registered in his erratic mind that the path that he was travelling on was oddly familiar. He couldn’t shake the feeling, as strange as it was. But he pushed forward anyway, hurtling in the direction that his string of fate was leading him to.

-

He was right.

He was standing on George’s street, the thread shooting towards a familiar porch. _George’s porch_.

Jorel couldn’t believe it. He hovered on the roadside in wonder, surprised.

He was destined with George. He couldn’t believe it. 

What did it matter if the one he was meant to be with was his best friend for years? Of course - that made sense. They had spent years together, and had a deep understanding of each other’s mechanisms and workings. Of course they were compatible. Yet, Jorel had somehow expected to meet a completely new person.

Well, it didn’t matter did it? He did really appreciate George as a friend. Maybe they could be more. They could, right? Since they were bound by the strings of fate.

An uncomfortable yet not unwanted mix of excitement and uncertainty settled in the pit of Jorel’s stomach. He scrubbed his hands over his face, groaning heavily, trying to shake the emotions. He was definitely excited - but also nervous. What if things didn’t go right? What if he screwed things up?

Now, Jorel had been to enough counselling sessions to know that when he felt this way, he’d be best of thinking positively and imagining the best scenario. So he did. He could see George grudgingly shovelling the snow off the driveway during the winter, could see them watching crappy horror movies together, could imagine all the jamming sessions they’d have in a basement studio that they’d construct.

He smiled. Yes, he had the courage to do this. He could do it.

Movement caught his eye and he turned to observe the flurry of activity happening.

A young girl, dressed in a bright pink jumper was dashing across the street, towards a male who seemed equally elated. They spearheaded for each other, feet thumping on the gravel. When they met, the girl bowled the boy over, grasping onto him tightly, shouting gleefully. The boy wrapped his arms around her, looking stunned but excited.

Jorel smiled when he saw the two red threads between the boy and the girl. How absolutely sweet. 

He silently wished them a happy life ahead.

The bass guitarist turned away, ready to proceed to George’s house.

Wait.

He jerked back to study the girl and boy - who were now thumbing each other’s numbers into their phones, excitedly chatting.

In between them were two threads.

Jorel’s eyes drifted to his own thread - a singular, thin thing, innocently reaching into George’s house.

Dread filled him as he considered a frightening possibility, as discomfort settled in from the uncertainty of the situation.

Perhaps the number of strings didn’t matter. Perhaps-

Jorel desperately tried to calm himself down, but turmoil was settling in. Anxiety was creeping into his chest, a sickening panicky feeling that threatened to make him cry and hurl. The sun was warm, burning the back of his neck; yet he felt icy cold.

No, he was destined for George. He was.

He-

A car pulled onto the street, tires screeching as it hurtled quickly, spitting gravel.

Jorel hesitated, allowing it to be an excuse to delay his decision-making.

The driver of the white Toyota slammed their brakes before George’s house, the vehicle jerking to a comical halt.

Jorel could recognise that car anywhere. He could not fathom what the owner of the vehicle would have to do with George on that very day.

A blond man hurriedly climbed out of the car, turning to lock it. Danny’s head bobbed quickly and he looked as if he were in a rush. Perhaps he urgently needed George’s help.

But Fate was a bitch and Jorel was about to discover it.

Fate was pissing on his parade.

At such close proximity, Jorel could see two threads strung between Danny and George’s house. Two bright, red threads glinting in the late-morning sun, almost mocking him.

Jorel’s blood froze. It couldn’t be. 

_No._

The door to George’s house swung open.

Danny and George were bound to each other.

**_No._ **

Both gasped upon the sight of each other and threw themselves into each other’s arms, embracing tightly.

**_NO._ **

Jorel stared dumbly at his single string trailing from his wrist, linked to George’s elbow, not his wrist.

Danny and George had mutual threads stringing their wrists together.

There had to be a mistake. There had to be.

This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be so unfortunate to suffer such a shitty destiny. He couldn’t-

Fuck it.

Jorel ran back home, threw together a backpack, and sped his car out of the town.


	3. Six Months of Loneliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, I apologise. But the lengthier ones are on the way.
> 
> -Alias, 13/9/18

Jorel knew that he had gone and done it. Fucked up his life. Messed up his future. Destroyed his body.

But everything that hurt, everything that ruined his perceived pathetic self, just _felt so damn good_.

If it wasn’t chain-smoking on rooftops, basking in the solace, savouring the burn in his lungs, the rush of cold as he exhaled, it was drinking six-packs after six-packs in his shitty apartment with leaky ceilings and poor heating.

His life was sad. Definitely. But did he care? No.

Things Jorel cared about: Beer. Weed. Smokes. Whatever drugs he could get his hands on.

Things Jorel tried not to care about: George.

He had somewhat successfully managed to wean George off his mind day after day. Every single day was just an exhausted cycle of batting the thoughts of George - and fucking _Danny_ \- out of his mind.

His ‘weapons’ were Heinekens and Gold Flakes. Sometimes they were little crystals in clear bags.

After leaving the town, following his horror and shock over how Fate had decided to royally fuck him in the ass and spit in his eye, Jorel had pulled into a new city, found cheap lodging, and scouted out all the bars in the area.

He knew he would need the knowledge to pull through life as it was.

-

Jorel startled awake, breath ragged, panting heavily.

His heart was constricting painfully, yet thumping away rapidly at the same time.

Warmth gathered at his eyes and he squeezed his eyes shut, running his hands desperately over his face, groaning in pain.

His room was completely dark, save for the slivers of moonlight trickling in through the curtains.

He had dreamt about George. Again. 

He fucking hated dreams. He couldn’t control them for shit. And as a haunting reminder, his body never let him forget the man that he was ‘destined for’.

The very man who wouldn’t want him.

Fuck.

Jorel sniffed angrily, scrubbing a fist down his face, taking a large, heavy breath.

The cold air felt good in his lungs.

His new apartment was always cold. It had shitty heating and had two windows that were permanently stuck in an open formation - allowing the cool winds in. It was the complete opposite of luxurious - cite the leaky ceiling plopping water into a red plastic tub (which Jorel had stuck beneath the leak) - but it was cheap and affordable.

Cheap and affordable lodgings meant more money for Jorel to use on drugs, smokes and drinks.

Oh, and whores on those nights when he really needed to take his mind off things.

Jorel sighed heavily, staring angrily into the darkness.

It was too fucking late (or early, he wasn’t sure of the time) to deal with the bullshit his mind could conjure for him. Fuck the beautiful fantasies he wanted and longed for. They would never happen.

Because in cold, harsh reality, there was no way he would wake up to George’s feather kisses on his neck. There was no way he would be able to sit by the beach and lay his head on George’s lap. There was no way he’d be able to hold George’s hand and call him his.

Fate had fucked him up.

He was a fuck up. A screw up on destiny. An anomaly.

And he didn’t know what to do.

(What was he to do if even the fucking Universe didn’t have a place for him?)

So drinking himself to black-outs, jamming random hits into his veins, and progressively gaining lung cancer became the only options for him: methods to alleviate the endless, scraping pain.

A pain that constantly raked through his entire being, stabbed and settled in his heart. A pain that came from the feeling of abandonment, unjust, anger. Grief that settled in his chest. Rage that burned from his stomach.

Jorel’s hand found the nightstand next to his bed, fingers brushing against the rough, unpolished wood. He scrabbled in the dark, feeling about for his goods. His fingers finally closed around a box with a papery texture, and a small plastic cuboid.

A spark. A tiny flame bloomed in the dark.

Jorel fumbled, pulling a cigarette out of its box and lit it with the lighter. He took a long drag before exhaling heavily, feeling the coiled-up muscles slowly relax. His throat and lungs felt content - as though he were breathing in sweet oxygen.

He kept everything at bay. One smoke at a time.

This night was not new at all. He would wake up from some dream of George, and snatch up ciggies to smoke for relief.

Originally, he had pleaded to the stars, begging them to change his fate, pleading so desperately for things to _just be right_.

But now? 

He had given up.


	4. Meeting Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lengthier chapter. The upcoming chapters would all be longer too, now.
> 
> Thank you all for your support so far, Airia and I are grateful and happy to see the positive reviews!
> 
> \--Alias, 19/9/18

The buzz of the nightlife greeted Jorel as he left his small apartment.

He felt himself living the lyrics of ‘The Diary’ that his soulmate had once sung. 

Memory hurt him, but he was not about to waste his evening dwelling. He was out to party, and bury the past under another haze of alcohol.

George could have his fun with Danny; Jorel didn’t need a soulmate to enjoy himself. Tonight, he was going to forget all the problems that plagued him, and worry about them another day when they actually mattered - which Jorel didn’t consider would be anytime soon. George did seem pretty happy with Danny.

“Fuck fate, fuck it to the deepest of fucks,” Jorel mumbled, highly-aware of all the couples snogging around him. He turned away. It stung to know that he’d never feel the love of fate. 

He had to remind himself that he was about to get buzzed and fucked up, fight the waves of _knowing_ how screwed up everything was.

He wished fate had chosen differently and hadn’t stuck him in a stupid love triangle in which he would be the loser every time. It was not like he could force Danny and George apart. That would be cruel, and he would be less likely to gain his soulmate that way.

Jorel had spent the best part of half an hour walking around, trying to find a bar where he wouldn’t be greeted by the sight of couples snogging everywhere. He had finally found one called The Crow’s Nest. Vague memories appeared of Jordon singing there as part of his Han Cholo band. He knew Jordon wouldn’t be performing tonight and it gave Jorel mixed feelings. 

Jordon would listen, he was sure. Jordon would help him get back on track, pull him away from drinks and pills. Jordon could help him.

But Jorel didn’t want help. Didn’t want to _accept that he needed help_ (even though he very well knew he did).

Jorel sat at the bar and seconds later he was handed a Jägerbomb from the barman.

“You look like you need it, mate, it’s on the house,” the barman said and Jorel shrugged as he accepted it. He was not about to turn down the offer of free booze.

He settled back, ready to relax and let the alcohol hit.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a man grinding against a woman, both clearly too drunk to care much about what they were doing. 

Exasperated, Jorel downed the Jägerbomb in one go. 

He was going to get wasted tonight, he was _definitely_ going to get wasted tonight. He might also try to get laid tonight to fend off the loneliness. He tried not to think too much as the barman handed him yet another Jägerbomb. The barman said something about all of his drinks being on the house tonight as long as he stayed responsible and didn’t start any fights while drunk. Jorel barely heard it, neither did he care.

He had never met the barman before, but he already liked him. He couldn’t turn down any of the free drinks that he was being offered. He had a limited budget, after all.

Anyway, drinking was a good escape from shit since he woke to find his fucking string of fate attached to someone destined for someone else.

It was not long before his blood started thrumming gently in his veins and he felt like he was tethering away from his control of his body. His mind was lulled into a gentle calm and he giggled at the buzz in his stomach and chest. It was then he knew it was time to go.

Well, he did try to leave but found himself being stopped by an equally-wasted man.

“Hey, what’s a pretty boy like you doing out here by yourself?” the man slurred, barely managing out the hiccup-riddled sentence.

“Going home,” Jorel growled, shouldering rudely past the man, escaping into the cool night. He took a breath; fresh, crisp air breezing into his lungs. It might have sobered him up a little, it might not have had.

Slightly-disorientated, his eyes searched the surroundings before he recognised the familiar sidewalk that he needed to pass to get home. With a suffering sigh, he shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged back to his dreary apartment, fully wanting to plummet head-first into his pillows and let sleep claim his consciousness.

-

A body was lying on the sidewalk.

The man was half-slumped against the dirty bricked walls of a shuttered convenience store. His legs were splayed over the ground, one arm twisted uncomfortably behind his back. A couple of six packs were strewn about him.

Jorel usually ignored these passed-out drunks. He held no responsibility for the withered skeletons that slouched against walls, grip loosening around a bottleneck.

But this man looked far too young. Far too young for his life to come to this: _alone_ in the open, unconscious to the world. 

He could not have been much older than Jorel himself; facial features smooth and defined, with a hint of boyish-ness, like a young man barely out of his teens. The embodiment of youth, of potential.

Seated on a grimy path, drinking his life away.

Jorel hesitated, feeling a mix of empathy and pity well up inside of him.

He wanted to help this man, even though he couldn’t help himself.

Jorel glanced right and left, eyes tracking the shadowy lanes, as if searching for an answer, battling the conflicting feelings. The streets were dark and empty.The streetlight continued to glow on the man’s - no, _boy’s_ \- youthful features. His expression was relaxed, gentle. He looked like a friendly person in slumber. Definitely not deserving to be shit-faced on the sidewalk.

The urge to _help_ was overwhelming. 

Jorel bit his lip.

His apartment was not far off; he could manage to carry this man there, no problem.

That might have been the alcohol thrumming in him speaking, but _still_.

He didn’t know why he wanted to help the guy out so much, but he guessed that he would find out in the morning. With a tired sigh, Jorel shuffled forward, drunkenly reaching to slide his arms under the man, forcing him into a straight sitting position.

Rationale, sober Jorel would not be touching an unconscious person and carrying them back to his apartment.

But drunk, shit-faced Jorel thought it was a fantastic idea.

The bass guitarist grunted as he yanked the man upwards, surprised by his own movements. Everything he did took seven times longer to process and he blinked, confused, at the wall for a full minute before he realised that he had managed to stand up, the passed-out male in his arms.

Jorel yawned, sleepiness from the drinking starting to set in.

He arranged his (confused) arms around the other male to support him, somehow highly aware of every breath that the other took - paying a little too much attention to the rise and fall of the other’s chest against his own. With great difficulty, Jorel maneuvered the drunk man onto his back, allowing him to lean on the guitarist’s back, chin hooked on Jorel’s shoulder.

Jorel wrapped an arm around the man and slowly half-dragged, half-carried both of them in the direction of his apartment, not even considering what a bad idea he had had.

In the dark of the night, himself lonely and wasted, picking a wasted person off the streets seemed like a great idea to drunk, sad Jorel.

-

Jorel was quickly regretting his decision when he got to the apartment block and realised that he now had to carry the guy up five floors worth of narrow concrete stairs.

“This bet’er be w’rth it,” Jorel stupidly mumbled to the unconscious man, words slurred. There was nothing in his apartment worth stealing so Jorel figured that he didn’t have to worry too much. 

With great difficulty, Jorel hauled the other male up to his apartment, teeth clenched.

By some mysterious forces, he managed to unlock his apartment door while completely pissed, standing in an awkward position as he shouldered another man.

Jorel didn’t have the luxury of a spare bedroom so the man was going to have spend the night on the couch. 

Not bothering to switch on the lights, Jorel ambled over to the couch, dumping the man on the cheap fabric seat. A muffled thump sounded out and Jorel paused, waiting for the other to awaken.

But the man didn’t stir. He continued his peaceful, drunk slumber.

With a relieved sigh, Jorel closed his front door and headed to his room to get changed.

He never imagined that he would be doing this, but then again he didn’t imagine that he would be having so many drinks on the house from the barman either. He liked it when things went in his favour for once.

In a last minute decision, Jorel decided to leave a glass of water and a pot of aspirin on the table for the man. He wasn’t going to be cruel, if he needed a friendship then he had to be nice.

The final thing that Jorel decided to do before going to bed was to cover the drunken man with a flannel blanket. The apartment was not the best, and it was often cold. Jorel was definitely feeling that cold now. He wanted to climb into his own bed and snuggle under the duvet. 

He got himself his own glass of water and stole a couple of aspirin from the pot he left on the table for his drunk friend. That would help the hangover he himself was going to have.

Jorel climbed into his bed and relaxed under the covers. He was starting to feel calmer now. He would have to see what the morning would bring. 

He closed his eyes and yawned.

Tonight, had been one of the strangest nights of his life to date but he wasn’t about to question it. Maybe fate was finally showing him what other plans it had instore for him.

-

Jorel woke with a pounding headache, but he could also smell cooked eggs. Huh, that was new. 

With great difficulty, he rolled over to a side, the sheets wrapping themselves around him, and grappled for the aspirin he left by his bedside. He swallowed it dry, desperately trying to ward off the hangover. Fuck hangovers, really.

Jorel waited another five minutes before getting up to see what the mysterious man was cooking in his kitchen. He was surprised that at 11 am the man hadn’t left yet. 

Bare feet on the cold wood, he padded towards his kitchen, blearily processing the familiar figure of last night’s drunk man bustling about his kitchen, satisfying sizzling noises sounding out.

“Good morning!” the man called, upon noticing Jorel, sounding quite cheery despite the hangover he probably had. 

“Uh, ‘morning,” Jorel replied, not quite sure what else he should be saying right now. 

Jorel sat himself awkwardly at his breakfast bar watching the other man busy himself about the stove, humming a light tune.

They didn’t speak for a moment - Jorel eyeing the other man carefully; and the man focusing on scrambling eggs and dumping the hot goodness onto warm, brown toast.

Jorel startled as a plate of toast and eggs landed with a thud before him.

“Thought I would make you some breakfast to say thank you for giving me somewhere to stay last night - and for the hangover cure this morning,” the man said firmly, smiling brightly, “I hope you didn’t mind that I helped myself to your ingredients.” Jorel smiled in response.

“Thank you,” he managed out, voice rough. He coughed and busied himself by shoving a bite of food into his mouth as the other man placed his own plate before him and sat down across from Jorel.

Jorel had never had eggs that tasted so good before - and it surprised him. 

 

He should pick up drunk, unconscious guys up more often. 

“You’re welcome to stay if you need…” Jorel began, trailing off to give the man a chance to introduce himself. It felt a little bit weird to call him the man who is staying in Jorel’s house. 

“Dylan Alvarez,” the man finished, offering his hand out. 

Jorel shook his hand. “Jorel Decker,” Jorel replied, and Dylan smiled at him. 

“I think I’ll hang around for a couple more hours today, if you don’t mind.”

Dylan proceeded to slide him a cup of coffee, which the other man downed quickly, humming in agreement.

They ate in silence, did the dishes, and headed back to the living room.

Jorel was so glad that he didn’t go for a whore last night. 

He felt like he made the right decision to have helped this man up from the streets. He had barely met Dylan, yet he was comfortable in the good vibes that the other male gave off.

“So, what can I know about you?” Dylan asked Jorel, as they settled on the couch.

It was only fair that they get to know each other a little more. 

“Well, I was born on the first of May nineteen eighty-four. I love horror movies, music and cats and my favourite colour is red. What about you?” Jorel began, shifting uncomfortably.

It had been months since he had any sort of social interaction that involved acting like a proper human being. Shit, he had really let himself spiral down since the day his string of fate appeared.

“Cool. I was born on the eleventh of April nineteen eighty-six. I enjoy smoking weed and other than that there isn’t much interesting about me,” Dylan smiled, though, Jorel noted, there was a self-depreciating undertone. He felt that. Having his emotions be complete shit himself, Jorel was highly sensitive of others’ unhappiness and he could sense the sadness from the other male, despite the cheeriness masked over it.

“Fair enough, feel free to smoke in my house, dude. All I ask that you leave the windows open.” Jorel responded, trying to lighten the situation. 

Dylan grinned at him and Jorel felt inclined to ask about his ‘life story’. Then again they had only known each other for an hour, so why would Dylan feel comfortable telling Jorel something which could be extremely personal?

But Jorel decided that, since he had already gone out of his way to be weird and bring this guy home last night, there was no shame in following through and being direct. He would be open to listen and help, anyway. 

“Are you okay?” Jorel asked.

They lapsed into an awkward silence.

Dylan’s eyes shifted to focus on his knees, the smile faltering slightly before dropping completely.

Jorel felt awful. 

“I guess so,” Dylan said, words somewhat bitter and sad, though there was an obvious attempt to keep his tone light. 

And Jorel knew that Dylan was going through the same emotions he did only six months ago. Grief and loneliness are hard things to cope with on your own.

“You can talk to me at anytime, Dylan. I know we have only really just met when I got up this morning, but I'm willing to lend you my support anytime,” Jorel told Dylan. 

Maybe it'd be the day Jorel broke the cycle of sadness that has lasted for the past six months.

With a nod, Dylan rose from his seat, sighing. He proceeded to pace the room, eyes sweeping over the furnishing and walls.

Jorel watched as Dylan walked around.

A certificate hung on the wall from a college course that Jorel had done. 

“Did you ever go to high school?” Dylan paused, asking Jorel, not seeing a high school diploma on the wall. 

Jorel looked at Dylan and shook his head. 

“Mom never forced me to go so I didn’t,” Jorel replied loosely. 

“Ah, I myself dropped out. My parents’ weren’t happy with it at all. They liked it even less when they found out I started smoking weed,” Dylan said and flopped down next to Jorel on the couch. 

Jorel awkwardly wrapped his arm around Dylan to send the message that the older male would be there for the younger. They had barely met - but Jorel could feel the mutual understanding of each others’ feelings, and the mutual need for someone to be there for each other.

It might not be completely perfect but Jorel was determined to make it work. 

“Yeah, I understand. I don’t think that my parents would be happy with my behaviour right now. They certainly didn’t raise me to be as bad as I am right now,” Jorel agreed, giving them some common ground to work with, “I have avoided contacting them in fear of disappointing them.”

“My parents couldn't care less about me anymore,” Dylan muttered bitterly, swallowing thickly, “They've disowned me and are fucking happy about it.”

Jorel’s eyes widened.

Oh.

Jorel grappled Dylan into a tight hug, crushing the soul out of the other, silently transferring the message that _all was okay: I’ll make sure it’s okay._

Dylan hugged back tightly. He didn’t know Jorel that well, yet he knew that he could trust the man.

“It’s gonna be okay Dylan, you’ll have me now,” Jorel comforted, not relaxing his crushing bear-hug.

Jorel wanted to take Dylan under his wing, and teach the younger man not to commit the same mistakes which Jorel had made over the last few months. Drowning his problems had not worked in his favour and he needed to teach Dylan the same. 

“Thank you, Jorel. I appreciate it,” Dylan mumbled. 

Jorel was happy to allow the man to let his emotions out. He wanted to offer someone else the support he never had. “You’re welcome Dylan. I am here for you whenever you need me,” Jorel responded quietly.

As he held onto the distressed male, Jorel shut his eyes and took in the scene. He was speaking, _clutching_ onto another human being. He was supporting a _friend_. He had found a new task to focus his energy on: prevent Dylan from fucking up his life, and being the person that Jorel himself would have wanted months ago. A confident. A friend. 

Things had progressed much faster than Jorel had expected. He had only met a conscious Dylan barely an hour ago yet, Jorel knew, they could relate to each other on levels that no one else could.

And with acknowledgement of that, they would have to be there for each other. It was a silent pact.


End file.
